


Mr. Smith at Home

by justanothersong



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-09 21:58:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1999413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanothersong/pseuds/justanothersong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever Dean Smith did, he did it wholeheartedly. It was one of the reasons that his family was able to understand this thing he had with Cas, even if others couldn’t, even if sometimes Dean himself couldn’t quite understand it.</p><p>Nights like these, he didn’t need to understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Short one-shot, probably will end at 2-3 chapters.

Whatever Dean Smith did, he did it wholeheartedly. It was one of the reasons that his family was able to understand this thing he had with Cas, even if others couldn’t, even if sometimes Dean himself couldn’t quite understand it.

Nights like these, he didn’t need to understand. 

Work had been hell. He loved his job, he really did, but there were days when everything went wrong and with dozens of people depending on him to right them, it could become too much. Sandover Bridge & Iron was a Fortune 500 company, and even any small errors could wreak havoc with their quarterly statements. It had been a little too much that day.

It was storming by the time he got home, not to the overpriced loft apartment in the city that he still owned, but to the little cabin on the outskirts of the city, backed by towering pine trees and set away from the road, behind a field full of bramble and tall grass. Dean stripped away the remains of Sandover in the little front hall, peeling out of his dampened Brooks Brothers herringbone suit jacket and his yellow pinstripe Hugo Boss tie, throwing them over a rack that Cas had placed there, because he didn’t want Dean carrying any more of Sandover into their home than he had to.

Dean always got a secret little thrill up his spine when he thought of that day, when Cas had called it _their_ home. To Dean’s mind, it had always been Cas’s home. Cas’ cabin. Cas’ place. Even as Dean spent more and more time in the little hideaway, first overnights and then days and weeks at a time, until one day he came straight from work for dinner and then never left. He had walked in surprised to see more touches of himself present there than usual, even his diploma from Stanford hanging on the wall between Cas’ favorite Degas print and an old _East of Eden_ movie poster. The rack had been there as well, new and waiting for him to arrive. That had been the night that Cas said it, the night the cabin had gone from his to _theirs_.

 

He was down to his boxer briefs and a ratty t-shirt by the time he made it to the living area, where Cas was sitting, probably waiting. The man glanced up and smiled, all messy dark hair and a day or two of stubble, a small transistor radio sitting on the table beside him, tuned to a local classic rock station.

“Hello, Dean,” he called in his gravelly tone, and the stress of the day just melted away, rolling down Dean’s shoulders like the drops of rainwater still falling from his dirty blonde hair.

“Heya Cas,” Dean replied with a sigh, and he dropped to the beaten up old couch, sprawling out on top of his lover and letting his head fall into Cas’ lap.

Without a word, Cas began running his fingers through Dean’s hair, smoothing back the wet tresses and gently scratching his fingertips across Dean’s scalp, making him hum in pleasure and close his eyes. The radio was playing an old Bad Company song and it wasn’t long before Cas’ deep voice began to sing along, quiet and low, just loud enough for Dean to hear it above the patter of rain on the roof.

“Baby, when I think about you, I think about love…”

Dean didn’t know if heaven was real, if there was a God or any reward after life on earth, but he was certain if there was, it would be living in moments like these.


	2. Chapter 2

It happened so easily, the way they fell together into this thing that they had, that Dean would often find himself thinking back on it, running it over in his mind and looking for some secret he had missed, some subtle little thing that could have caused them to click so well.

 

He had stopped at the grocery store on his way home from work on an average Tuesday night, intending to just grab a few things before heading back to his apartment. He was starting on a three-day juice cleanse the next morning, and wanted to have one last substantial meal before it began. Sadly, all of the baby spinach and Swiss chard in his refrigerator had already wilted, and he needed to grab some fresh greens to make his salad for dinner. And since he was starting the cleanse just after, he figured it wouldn’t hurt to go a little wild and throw in some feta and strawberries for a change.

His direct supervisor, a balding, hook-nosed, and overall disagreeable man by the name of Adler, had been into his office just the day before, bearing, as always, unfortunate news. Dean had too much standing vacation time that had been left unused, he explained, and that just wouldn’t do. The company would not pay out the time, nor did they want to leave anything Dean could use as a bargaining chip in negotiating his contract; he would just have to take some time off.

Dean had protested, of course. It was a busy sales quarter, after all. He was needed. And Adler agreed, of course they needed him, but they also needed to look out for the company’s interests, and for Dean’s. After all, everyone needed a little time off now and again, didn’t they?

There was some strange smarmy edge to Adler’s words that made Dean suspicious, but he checked and double-checked, and what the man had said was true. Dean had accrued almost two months of paid leave with the company; he supposed it couldn’t hurt to take a little time. He would finish out the week, and then take two full weeks off. It was enough to appease Adler, but not so much as to put him entirely out of the game when he returned.

With no other options, Dean had agreed, and on Monday evening had plotted his vacation: he’d do the three-day cleanse he’d been meaning to begin for the remainder of the week, and on Saturday morning would catch a flight to a health and wellness spa in Minnesota that he’d been hearing so much about lately, and pack a few of the sales and marketing technique books he’d been meaning to read. What better way to use his vacation time than to improve both body and mind, after all?

 

So there he had been, pondering two different brands of supposedly organic but who really knew strawberries, when he noticed a pair of beautiful hands picking through the organic green peppers on the other side of the produce island. 

Dean had always had a thing for nice hands, he had to admit. His was a world of dry skin, ink stains, paper cuts, and pencil calluses; he felt his own hands had been ruined by his work and used overpriced lotions to try and temper the loss of moisture from shuffling paperwork all day. But these hands were different; they were perfect. Large sun-kissed hands, gently turning and cradling each pepper, inspecting them to see if they were up to par for his personal standards. Long thick-knuckled fingers, calloused from real work and not pushing papers, nails cut short, maybe even bitten but it didn’t matter, not to Dean. Even the thick knot of bone at his wrist was somehow alluring, perfectly rounded and bound in by veins that stretched passed towards his fingers.

Dean swallowed hard, almost afraid to look up at the rest of the man standing across the produce island. He knew that he was attracted to men, and for the most part, he had no qualms about it. Sex was sex, so long as it was fun and clean, he didn’t care about much else. But his job came with an image to uphold, and it didn’t leave much room for picking up men in the produce department.

Besides, there was the cleanse and the spa trip to think about; it wasn’t just for shits and giggles. There was something he had to work on before letting his body under the scrutiny of another – another man, on top of it, who would know what all the parts and pieces should look like.

He was still caught up in his weirdly organized mental spiral into chaos, a different branded carton of strawberries in each hand, eyes still glued to the hand in the green peppers, when those nimble fingers sprang to action. The hand plucked one of the peppers from the pile, green tinged orange to red on the side, where it must have been turning before it was picked, and held it aloft.

“See something you like?” a low voice intoned, and much to his chagrin, Dean looked up to meet its owners eyes.

His first thought had been “blue”, his second had been “holy shit”, and his third had been “oh hell I’m in trouble”, and he quickly shook his head, dropped both cartons of strawberries into his cart, and made a beeline for the dairy aisle. 

He was fairly certain he heard a deep chuckle as he left.


End file.
